Flashbang: How I Got Over Myself

the stones

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“WHAT WE CAN DO WITHOUT”

The first time she dialed emergency that year was not as earth-shattering
as the second, but nevertheless uncomfortable. That first time, my wife Kaysie
was dialing 9-1-1 for the pain inside of me. Me. The Dad.

I always prefer that any danger in the vicinity will first apply to me. At
least I do in theory, because I find it easier to suffer physical pain
than emotional anguish, which is what happens to me if the physical pain is
thrust upon anyone else important in my life. It has only now dawned on me that
this makes me selfish, instead of fatherly. But isn’t that almost the case with
any father: that he takes the weight, the brunt, the pain, the cold slice of
pizza for the sake of being (or at least appearing) stronger? I believe a father
would bring on the pain at any and all times—welcome it, in fact— for the sake
of that ever-elusive impression of strength.

Unless, of course, the pain in question feels like a monkey is attempting
to escape from the father’s abdomen.

The specific pain in question that required a call to 9-1-1 began subtle,
like food poisoning (i.e. that which was consumed for a meal is now alive and
retaliating from inside—and it is obligated to smell like some sort of cleaning
solution whose ingredients include ammonia and something citrus), but digressed
quickly. It moved to a very specific pinpoint somewhere in the vicinity of the
six-pack of abs I would have if I wasn’t so infatuated with cake, and began
to dig. Dig. DIG. How do I describe the dig? It’s a digging. It’s—no, that doesn’t
work ... It’s like a little tickle. You know that little tickle.

Like when a squirrel eats your eye.

There was definitely something wrong. Something incompatible with all that
was taking place inside my person. In short, I felt like my insides were chewing
themselves outward.

I have attempted to keep portions of myself from you for at least a page,
and I’m certain that I will be alternately successful and unimpressive in my
attempts to hide more, somewhat valuable facts. However, I cannot proceed with
this (albeit clever) anecdote concerning a rather lengthy physical malady (still
a mystery) until I make a confession. By the grace of God, I am many things:
some decent, some questionable, some whimsical. But one thing that I am which
I am uncertain how to categorize is the thing that many people believe I am
only. I alluded to this before, but here it is, laid out plain for the world
to see.

I am a comic.

Did you enjoy how I said “a comic” instead of “a stand-up comedian” as
if that lends the occupation an air of renaissance? Yes. A comic. I like that.
It’s not telling jokes. It’s not what your uncle does. It’s art. Unless your
uncle is named Art, in which case, it isn’t like that at all. I am a comic.
Not an “angry young man” comic, utterly disappointed by everything and everyone.
I am not that. I mean, I am disappointed. From time to time. Often. As a matter
of fact, hundreds of times. Let’s take this opportunity to name eight of them.

1. When the primary Christmas present was a parakeet.

2. The second time she dialed emergency.

3. Two out of three Matrix films.

4. When the needle was the size of a McDonald’s straw.

5. The way I respond to other people’s faults as opposed to the way I
hope they respond to mine.

6. Two-hundred and twenty-seven pounds!

7. When I went back into the woods.

8. Bad eggs in Iowa. These are disappointments. And sometimes they are,
in fact, comedy.

Nor am I a “Christian comedian,” a label which I resist because Christian
comedians as a rule are not funny—and unfortunately, funny is a necessary sum
of the parts of a comedian. So, I am not a Christian comedian. I am a follower
of Christ. And, thank God, sometimes I am funny for profi t, gain, and unhealthy
doses of adoration by others. I did, however, participate in a Christian comedy
tour during the year 1994.

And we did, indeed, take a brief but life-altering stop in Iowa. This
brings us back to the first time I had food poisoning, which, again, is not
the mystery illness I am building toward in the “digging” story that began the
chapter, but IS important to where we are going. I cannot convince you of this.
You will simply have to trust me.

So quickly—before I resume the mystery—I will refer to the time years
prior that I came face to face with bad eggs in Iowa.

I have nothing against Iowa. One of my closest friends in the world is from
Iowa. That’s not necessarily his fault. But I am disappointed in Iowa’s preparation
of omelets. For instance, a Denver omelette should, when prepared with knowledge,
include diced ham, sharp cheddar cheese, and eggs that will not kill you.

Well, I simply hurled for days.

And understand that this was the deep-cleansing, brace-your-knees-on-the-toilet-spine
sort of throwing up. The sort that is exaggerated over generations into a tale
of one brave soul losing his lunch so violently, the large intestine urps outward,
unscrolling into the crack of a whip, single-handedly flaying a wildebeest.
Nevertheless, the bad eggs were a process that began with a pinpointed ache
in the abs. This same ache was the one returning to frighten me the night Kaysie
called emergency.

The location of the pain was reason enough to consider this new, dingo-sawing-on-my-liver
sensation the product of a bad meal. I obsessed on the pain, lying there in
the fetal position next to my sleeping and pregnant wife at three in the morning.
It simply had to be an extreme case of food poisoning (it wasn’t—and I tell
you this only to regain the air of mystery that I sense is being lost on you).
I made my way to the bathroom and waited for my Extra Value-Sized meal to take
leave.

Waiting. Nothing. Waiting. Nothing.

I finally realized that whatever was holding on was holding on hard, and
that my lunch was going to lollygag1 around until I asserted myself into the
process. So I tensed every muscle I could avail and gave my intended oneway
meal a round-trip ticket. In other words, I made my best attempt to throw up.

But, how should I say—something caught.

I suddenly became blinded by my own pain, an intense piercing deep into my
gut. It was the fi rst time during a sickness that I had the thought “something
is very wrong.” I felt myself turn blue then green then white, but before I
succumbed to the growing onslaught of fainthood, I crawled (no joke, literally
tugging at the carpet strands for leverage) back to my bed and awakened my pregnant
wife.

Note of caution: never wake up pregnant people (you will notice I used the
term “people” as to not blame one specific gender). My wife is a gentle woman—kind,
very much like Jesus. But put a baby in her, and you might as well invest in
gauze and bactine. Not that she wounds me out of anger when she is pregnant—she
does not. She wounds me out of clumsiness. This is why one should never put
a pair of scissors in a woman’s hand during a season in which she has no peripheral
sightline.

But, of course, I woke her up anyway because I could not breathe (which is
slightly above mortal fl esh wounds on the list of damage). She woke up in a
spasm of fl ailing and was instantly taken aback by the color in my face, as
it matched the hue of most dead bodies. This is when she dialed emergency.

The emergency number is 9-1-1—or if you memorize phone numbers by their corresponding
letters on the dial, it is YAA! Th e barely lifelike person on the other end
of the phone picked up and asked my wife if there was an emergency she would
like to report. Kaysie informed her that I could not breathe. The emergency
woman responded that this was not a good thing.

My wife concurred with this state of not-goodness. Emergency woman then confirmed
that all parties were in agreement in regard to the growing state of emergency.
I, in the meantime, was growing more and more aware of the weight of my spleen
and seeing visions of friends and relatives at the end of a bright tunnel.

Kaysie asked what should be done in regard to the dilemma of no apparent
oxygen traveling to my brain. To this question, the emergency girl responded
to keep an eye on me.